Chapter 60

The horn blast ripped through the night sky over Velen’s coast, sharp and ear-splitting.

In any violent corner of the world, alarms were designed to be exactly this piercing. The sound had to make whoever heard it feel a raw, primal command: “Move your ass, or die where you stand!” Even the most vile criminals were expected to recognize that much.

This camp’s horn did its job perfectly. The crescent-shaped encampment erupted into chaos. Shouts, curses, shoving, the rattle of movement. Within five minutes, the armed tents flickered to life with light. Lannor smirked at the inefficiency. Even a pre-military drill muster would have been faster. But given that this was an ancient, distrustful criminal group, the sluggish response was understandable.

For Lannor, though, it was more than enough to complicate things. He was still, fundamentally, a rookie assassin—no real stealth, no silent kills. Sneaking through a camp, dispatching guards, avoiding detection, rescuing hostages ... each task alone was difficult. And now, everything had hit a sharp, chaotic pivot at once. Plans never survive contact with reality.

His original intention had been simple: quietly eliminate at least a third of the guards, then proceed with everything else smoothly. His brief conversation with Margarita had taken less than ninety seconds. And that alone had triggered this alarm?

Lannor immediately shoved his dagger back into his belt, one hand resting on the hilt of his steel sword, back pressed to a wooden cage, eyes scanning the camp with tense vigilance like a cornered beast.